Grounded

I watered the mushroom bed in the heat,

lifted the straw, and musty life scent rose,

tomorrow will be hotter.

the heatwave grows.

As we stoop and bend with care,

each step creates the ground that holds the next.

could we stop this change if we touched

the deep dark earth and each tender worm?

cupped frogs in our hands?

felt their quivering moist skin breathe?

If we believed

as much as I

that the mushrooms

were bound someday to emerge

and grow from nothing?